


vatican cameos

by nightwideopen



Series: Ace Fics [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Depression, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Self-Harm, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sometimes louis gets sad and sometimes harry lets louis write on him</p>
            </blockquote>





	vatican cameos

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [to live on the moon with you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250038) by [toastghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastghost/pseuds/toastghost). 



> Hello this is mostly just me whining through Louis' POV, pouring my heart out, quite literally, So do be kind. I'm proud of most of it... I guess. so... Enjoy! Hopefully!
> 
> (Also the Louis/OMC is a past thing, and the title is a WW2 reference that was mentioned in BBC Sherlock. Good show.)
> 
>  **UPDATE AS OF NOV 7, 2016** : Ok so since writing this fic I've learned a lot about ... what is in this fic. I've learned about asexuality, and in this fic I tried to "justify" it in Louis with his vague backstory. This is not how all people experience asexuality. I've also come to recognize signs of depression. I've updated the tags for trigger warnings accordingly so please read them. It's all very vague and implied because I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about when I was writing this, as it was just an outlet, so it's just a precaution. Please don't read if you might be triggered.

~~ Sometimes we don't mean to write the things we write, but more often than not, that's when it's the truth. ~~

_he thinks maybe in an alternate reality he wouldve gone mad by now. the constant desire to feel awful about everything to make himself crave the comfort that never comes like a crackhead without his fix. in an alternate reality the dam wouldve broken a long time ago it wouldve come crumbling down the night he set himself into a blind panic over little to nothing. it takes all of his strength to keep the wall up but he lets things pass from time to time. lets the voices tell him he deserves the hurt hes causing himself the hurt hes causing others that others are causing him. none of it makes sense you see so maybe in an alternate reality hes not mad at all_

Louis stops writing abruptly, scratches out the few broken or run-on sentences (he can't tell anymore) that he can barely see through his tears and throws the notebook. It's old and tattered and several pages fall out of the fragile binding from all the tearing out that he always does; he goes a bit overboard when the words don't fall out as fast as he’d like.

"Stop, stop it. _Fuck._ " He's hardly strong enough to tear out his hair, but he comes pretty damn close. "God just _shut up._ "

He doesn't know what he wants to do. Screaming and throwing things seems ideal for about a moment, because all it means is that he's angry. At least with anger he feels that he has some sort of an illusion that it's under his control; who he directs it at, what he does about it. But the anger always is at himself, and so the coping method becomes futile and redundant, leading the way for the sadness that swallows him whole. He wants to compare the feeling to black clouds, but that's far too cliche.

Louis always tell himself that dealing with sadness is much more abstract. It's an invisible monster, is what it is, a hungry animal that feeds on his worst fears and his nightmares and everything he’s ever hated himself for. It always comes pouring back so fast; a storm cloud thundering into a hurricane in the matter of seconds.

Then there's anger: anger is concrete, makes sense, is short lived and fixable. Not everyone gets angry... not as often as they let themselves be sad.

You can't run from sadness, can't take a walk to blow off the steam of sadness. Sadness _is_ the steam, is the excess of pain and frustration. Louis finds it goddamned horrifying.

There's only three things he can do when he gets like this. He could ignore it - not an ideal route at the moment - considering the sadness that is starting to curl into his chest, blooming into something more tangible but still not quite within his reach. He could take a bath, a shower, a run to pretend like he's clearing his head, trying to expel the thoughts with relaxation, exertion. But he's just so _tired_. He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to pretend.

Or he could call Harry; Harry who knows how to deal with it to a certain extent, Harry who never judges and doesn't believe in tough love. Harry's kind words and unconditional truths and affection is all Louis ever really needs.

But it's three in the fucking morning and Harry's probably just curled up to go to sleep after coming home from work and maybe Louis can just -

His phone rings. It's shrill and it's annoying and hidden under his duvet, but it rings. And he doesn't even have to wonder who it is because he's ruined the element of surprise with all of his stupid personalized ringtones.

It's Harry. He must have spidey senses or something.

“Hello?” He doesn't even bother wiping his eyes or clearing his throat. Harry will know something’s up simply because he picked up the phone.

Harry doesn’t waste a moment, just quickly says , “Stop it.”

“Stop _what_.” It isn't even a question.

“Stop thinking whatever you're thinking. It isn't true so just. Just stop it, I can practically feel it.”

Louis laughs, nothing but malice and self pity and disbelief behind it. “Alright, Spider-man.”

“Nothing was tingly, Louis, don't be smart.”

Louis throws a curveball at the conversation. “No more deep heat in your eye, then?”  Making fun of Harry is always easy, natural.

Harry groans deeply. “That was _one time._ ”

It wasn't one time. "It was three, actually. I have proof.”

“Dickhead.”

“Twat.”

There's silence where Louis's about to say something, but - “I love you.” And Louis doesn't really think he'll ever get used to that, because he still can't quite believe that it's true.

“Have you found that thing you were talking about?” 

Deflection: the only thing Louis’s good at because he still hasn't said it back yet. He's not even close to ready. Even if it's true. Even if he tries his damn hardest to show Harry that he _wants_ to say it.

“Said _Thing_ has not yet been acquired, but I think we’re nearly there.”

"You keep looking, love." There's a brief but heavy silence. "You should come over tomorrow. I get lonely over here in my mansion."

"You mean your fucking castle," Harry argues. He sounds cute when he has a point, Louis notices.

Louis has a counter, though, tugs at a loose string on his shirt like he always does when he's right. "Oh shut up, you spend so much time here already one would think you're used to it."

"I still come home to a shoebox, Lou."

Louis frowns on his end. "I like it." Because it's the truth. Louis takes pride in loving the little things in life.

Harry scoffs. "Because you live at Hogwarts."

"That's a bit of a hyperbole."

"Go to sleep, Lou." 

Harry sounds defeated by Louis' great intellect, just the way Louis likes it. "I'll try." And truth be told, he won't have to try very hard at this point.

"I'll be over now if you need me. I've only got one late class tomorrow so I can make breakfast."

Louis shakes his head to himself, feeling quite ridiculous afterwards. "S'alright Curly get your beauty rest. God knows that's all I'm still with you for."

Harry snorts a little loudly. "Goodnight, Louis."

"Goodnight, Harry."

-

If there's one thing Louis is sure of is that he's a dependent little shit. It's not often that he's able to go without feeling the effects of the crippling loneliness. He's also a tad over dramatic. But it'd been a long time since he was able to call someone his best friend, had hugs and cuddles and anything that would make his external cold hearted demeanor vomit.

That's why when he met Harry it was anything but a blessing. 

Harry was different, of course he was. He understood Louis differently from the way everyone else ever did but not in the way Louis would like. They were too alike in the wrong respects and different in all the ones that mattered. They could talk for hours, keep each other awake and entertained and safe, never fighting, but always... off.

Louis' sat on his leather sectional waiting for Harry, a box of take away is at his feet where he has them propped up on the coffee table. He's just staring at the TV thats producing static because he hadn't the energy to find the remote again once he'd thrown it away. There's a light buzzing in his ears, a ridiculous feeling of sadness creeping up his throat. He pulls his sleeve up to his elbows and retrieves his pen from behind his ear

_whatever smattering of colour you've got left in your life,_ he writes, _is trying its hardest to shine through the dark. and you wont let it. youre too far gone, drained of every hue of happiness you'd come to call your own_

There's a knock on the door that makes him jump, and an ugly line from the last letter he wrote to the inside of his elbow blooms on his skin, redness surrounding it from how hard he'd accidentally pushed.

It's Harry, of course, so he doesn't even bother standing up. Louis simply shouts through the thick wooden door for him to come in and draws his legs closer to his body. He's warm in his sweatpants and hoodie and fuzzy socks, curled up in the corner of the sofa; he doesn't want to disturb the comfort.

Harry practically sings his name when he spots him, prances over with open arms and shining eyes and a smile wide enough to dig his crater-like dimples deep into his cheeks. He gently sits next to Louis, gathering him up in his arms and nosing at his still damp hair from his shower.

"Missed you so much."

"S'only been a month, Harold."

"Felt like thirty."

Louis doesn't say anything until the ridiculous words register completely. " _That's_ really dramatic."

"Oh, just shut up and kiss me, you arse."

Louis doesn't protest, complies with a few chaste kisses and pulling away before Harry gets the chance to get carried away. Harry pouts, naturally, and for more than a moment Louis is afraid that he's going to be angry.

Harry's expression immediately melts as Louis feels his face contort with fear.

"M'not angry. I'm sorry, Lou." He tugs Louis closer and tucks his face into Louis' neck. "It's still fine, I promise."

And there, he's gone and done it again, so he has to fabricate a clarification. "M'so scared, Harry. I'm so afraid of everything I feel."

He doesn't say anything, lets Louis' words ring in the silence in a way that makes tears prickle behind his eyes. He lays a palm over the back of Louis' hand and twines their fingers together. Harry flips their hands and chuckles when he sees the messy scrawl on Louis' forearm.

"What've I told you about writing on yourself? You've got papers everywhere and never use them."

"They're on my arm so I can get rid of them. So it's like they never existed. Not something I can do with paper. Not even the ashes."

There's some sort of flicker in the moment as Harry deciphers the words on Louis' skin, his frown deepening with each passing second; he's always been a slow reader.

"Are you really not happy?"

"How can I be."

And as usual Harry does not assume that he's the all consuming flame that lights up Louis' life, but takes it as a challenge to do better. "We should do something tomorrow."

Louis very much wants to cry at his inadvertent change of the subject, though. Harry's never been one to stay on topic, constant changes of thought juxtaposing the slow the organised way he speaks. 

So Louis deflects back, ignores the question and burrows himself deeper into Harry's side, chasing the warmth under his thighs with his toes and the sweet scent at the back of his neck.

"I just want to sleep, Harry."

"No you don't."

And he's right, Louis doesn't. The last thing Louis wants to do is sleep his days away when there's a whole world to see and explore. But whenever Louis' feeling sluggish and empty, tucked into bed or under Harry's arm, he never wants to move. He can be content slipping in and out of consciousness for days on end, just the way he likes it.

"But I do right now. Does that count?"

Harry takes the bait, as usual, and scoops Louis up bridal style. He takes three wrong turns and one wrong staircase and opens two wrong doors before he finds Louis' room. It's the messiest room in the house, the only one that's unmistakably lived in in the entirety of the mansion, and also the smallest. Louis is a modest man.

"You want some tea or something?" Harry offers.

Louis snorts into his pillow, scoots under his duvet and makes room for Harry. "You'll get lost, just lay down."

"I won't get lost," Harry mutters indignantly, crawling under the large blanket nonetheless.

Louis tucks his arms to his chest and presses himself close to Harry's back, nuzzling his nose into the back of the younger's neck.

"Lou?" Harry's voice rumbles through the darkness after a few moments. "You wanna switch?"

"No," Louis rasps petulantly.

Of the fact that Harry is frowning, Louis is three hundred percent certain. "But you're sad. You should be cuddled."

Louis wants to argue - it almost pains him to keep his mouth shut - but his desire to have Harry's lanky limbs encompass him completely is a bit overwhelming. He simply flips to his other side and folds into himself submissively.

"Do you want to attempt to talk about it?" Harry whispers.

They both let the silence ring on for a moment or so before Louis' fingers start to itch. It's not so much that he needs to get his hands on pen and paper, but that he needs to get the words out before they eat him up inside.

"Can I write it?"

Harry's face scrunches up in confusion. "Of course."

"I mean like," Louis gestures weakly before shrugging, "On you?"

He thinks he can feel Harry smile into his hair. "You're adorable." He laughs softly. "Like, my arms?"

But he doesn't want Harry to see it. "Your neck?" Louis snorts at himself. "I'm sorry that's so weird, wherever you want. If you want. You really don't have to. I'll use my own- Or paper. That might make more-"

Harry's hand slips over Louis' mouth. "It's fine." He's already reaching into Louis' pillowcase for the Sharpie he shouldn't know is there. "Whatever will make you feel better is fine with me."

Louis wants to argue that he should get a regular pen, something more easily washable, but he knows it's futile.

Harry shifts so he's on his back and Louis can sit comfortably on his hips. He bears the pale line of his neck, leaving Louis to brush his long hair out of the way. Harry's hands find themselves on Louis' thighs, unsurprisingly, and they both seem to hold their breath until the felt tip of the marker touches Harry's skin.

_theres a careful way fear cuts you open with all the precision of a preschooler with scissors_

It’s stupid, Louis thinks, it’s really stupid. The words don’t make quite much sense, and they get smudged when Harry breathes and jostles Louis' already wobbly hand.

"There's a lot of ways I imagined today going," Harry murmured, "This wasn't one of them."

Louis draws fake cat whiskers on Harry's cheeks for the remark before capping the pen. "Sorry I'm not putting out enough for your standards." His stomach twists just saying it, and he immediately regrets it slipping out of his unfiltered mouth. He scratches roughly at the words he'd written on his arm subconsciously, drops his head in shame. "Sorry."

Harry pushes up onto his elbows, fingers reaching up to brush over the black ink on his neck. Louis can feel his sad eyes on him, the way they're wide just like every time Louis lashes out. He doesn't say anything, and Louis thinks that maybe it's better that way. Harry takes Louis' hands in his, though, and just holds them. There's only so many times Louis can be this irritating before Harry runs out of ways to assuage it.

"Do you really think that's all I care about?"

 It's not so much the question that catches Louis off guard as the tone of Harry's voice. It's like ice, like he's _angry_. "No, but..." He trails off pathetically. It wouldn't do well to start crying in the middle of a half-hearted sentence.

"But what?"

Louis swallows his pride and tries to vocalize his fear without choking on the words.

"You always seem so disappointed." 

He doesn't succeed, the last word hardly making it out. Louis' tears try to trap the syllables under his tongue, but Harry gets the message. He's there to catch when Louis doubles over from the force of his crying. He didn’t want to, now feels even _worse_ , but he just can’t help it; he can’t help falling into Harry’s open arms, feeling more at home than he probably ever has or will.

“Lou,” Harry tries, “Louis, listen to me. Just take a deep breath, it’s alright, please?”

Harry’s never had the impromptu eloquence to get Louis to calm down the way he wants, but he’s always been so in tune with the way Louis reacts to his touches that he knows that all he needs is to clutch Louis’ hands to his chest the way they are. All Harry has to do is let Louis know that he’s not going anywhere.

It takes Louis more than a few moments to school his harsh breaths into occasional sniffles and hiccups, but Harry’s there the whole time, telling him not what he needs to hear, but secretly what he usually wants whispered in his ear. The meaningless words that don’t have any passion or significant meaning behind them, but show the effort of trying to comfort him, that means more to Louis than any amount of advice Harry could attempt to offer him for when he’s like this.

“M’sorry,” Louis mumbles in his broken and battered voice. The sigh Harry lets out is one Louis recognizes as frustration and so he quickly backtracks. “No- I mean, I’m just. I didn’t-”

Harry interrupts him with a short, “Louis,” an iota of laughter in his voice, keeping Louis tucked close as he speaks. 

“What.”

“What’s it you wrote on my neck?” 

Louis shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I feel like I’ve got a right to know which precious words you’ve vandalized me with.”

“Stop trying to be circumlocutory,” Louis quips with a private smirk.

Louis thinks Harry rolls his eyes. “I can feel you smirking.”

The banter doesn’t strike Louis at the moment, and so without hesitation he recites to Harry what he wrote in a quickly spoken mumble before he loses his nerve. He knows Harry’s heard him, because he’s not exactly the best at whispering.

“You don’t have to be afraid." There's a pause while Harry gathers his thoughts, so it seems. "You don't have to be afraid, or ashamed, or worried around me. I accept every choice you make and have made because they've led you to me and have made you the way you are; the way I love. Nothing changes that. All I want is for you to trust that I'm telling the truth when I tell you that you don't have to do something you don't want to because I won't love you any less."

"I've ruined this, haven't I?"

Harry squeezes his hands once. "You've not ruined anything. We're both still learning each other, remember? I like learning about you, tears or not. I trust you haven't drawn a giant dick on my neck, and that you've told me the truth."

Louis shifts awkwardly on Harry's lap, a smile that he tries to resist pulling at the corners of his mouth. There's probably so many ways Harry wanted this reunion to go, and in hindsight, Louis should've just drawn a dick.

"Do your friends ever ask? Like, Niall and stuff. Do they ever ask you if you're getting any?" He feels Harry's foot twitch all the way down the bed. "Just wondering, I won't be offended."

"It's none of their business though, is it?"

The uncomfortable lilt in his voice is enough to tell Louis that he was right, they do. "That's not what I asked."

"Am I not allowed to diver from answering?" Harry challenges.

"I suppose you are... But I want to know."

Harry groans in time with Louis' stomach, leaving the noise unheard so Louis can get his answer. "So what if they do? It's rude."

"Alright." Louis shrugs, chest finally not feeling as though it's on fire. "You hungry?"

He pulls back to get an eyeful of dimples and relief. "I thought you'd never ask."

-

"Are you sure?" Harry heckles worriedly. "I swear I didn't mean to mess this up. God, I'm the worst, it's-"

"It's fine, Harry." And really, it is. They might've missed the film Louis wanted to see, but Harry should know that he doesn't care so much about the film as he does just spending time with Harry and holding his hand in public. "What do you want to see, really."

Harry pouts, whines Louis' name, and pulls him into a hug. "I'm sorry." 

Louis laughs at him, feeling genuine happiness bubble up inside him at Harry's gesture. It's odd, how simple things like this can make him so indescribably content with everything in his life.

"Harry, you idiot, I don't care about the film. Anything we see's fine. S'long as you're with me, alright?"

Louis' fingers twitch minutely where they're on Harry's shoulders. He sighs softly, hoping Harry doesn't feel the way he squeezes just a little tighter.

Harry takes a step back, gives him one look from head to toe, and before Louis can say anything he's being presented with a pen and their unused and now worthless cinema tickets. Louis takes them in hand sheepishly, trying to subtly glance around for something to lean on. He finds nothing but the vertical brick wall of the cinema, and is about to give up, when Harry rolls his eyes and offers up his back. Louis' never been so grateful for Harry's broad shoulders.

"Don't shrug " Louis instructs playfully. "Last thing I need is my legacy _smudged_."

_i wonder if you talk about me the way i think of you i wonder if the fire in your eyes dances in time with the pounding of my heart whenever youre so much as on my mind_

It's short and sweet, clearly about Harry, and the most exposed he's ever felt in his words. He almost doesn't let Harry see, but his wide green eyes silently pleading are more than enough to make Louis to give in.

Harry smiles softly at his boyfriend's messy handwriting. "That's beautiful, Lou."

Louis smiles back. "Shut up, Harry." He grabs tangles their fingers faux-aggressively, leading them to the next open ticket window.

"Two for the cheesiest rom-com that's playing, please."

***

"You alright?" Harry asks after another sip, “You’re pulling a face.”

This 'face' that Harry speaks of isn't something that Louis wishes to justify, because even though he might actually be mentally pummeling his prude ways, his face just so happens to be one that looks distraught by default. 

"I don't appreciate you pointing out how moody I look." He picks the cherry out of his milkshake. "But I was just thinking. Nothing new."

Louis looks up at Harry, takes in his worried eyes and mussed up hair, his pouty lips and his horrendous choice of shirt. It's the most obnoxiously patterned shirt he owns, and it's one of Louis' favorites. A strange, uncomfortable feeling spreads in his gut, leaks up to his face, and all in the sudden he's blushing from excess emotion and not knowing how to outwardly express it with words or otherwise.

"What about?" Harry presses cautiously.

Louis stands up slowly and shuffles around to Harry's side of the tiny booth they'd secured nearly half an hour ago. It's a tight fit, but Louis makes himself small, tucks his hands into his sleeves, his shoulders into Harry's side, and it works.

"You," Louis sighs like it's the most blatant thing in the world, "Me. Wondering how the hell and _why_ the hell you continue to put up with me and how I-"

Harry cuts him off with no more than a disbelieving look. "Lou? Is this about the sex thing again?"

Louis blushes deeper, going from flushed to sunburnt as he whips around to make sure no one's heard. " _Stop it_. I'm not- I don't want to have this conversation again, much less in public and in an _ice cream shop_."

"Louis, it's nothing to be ashamed of and like. I get that it's private, you're right, but. You don't think we should discuss it a _little_ bit? That you're _afraid_ to say no?"

Harry's watching him intently, seems to be trying to read into his silence and fidgeting with the string on his joggers. 

"Stop staring at me," he snaps. "It's really not so important and I really should not have said anything."

Harry snatches up a napkin hastily, digging into his coat pocket beside him until he comes up with a red crayon.

"Write," he says, eyes fiery with his request. He could see what the twiddling of Louis' fingers meant.

Louis' stubborn about it though, doesn't like being given orders. "A crayon," he taunts, "Really?"

The crayon and napkin are placed in front of him by a pouting Harry. They sit in relative silence as Harry finishes his shake and Louis bounces his knee in agitation. He's not even angry, is the thing; he's just the better part of pissed off with how much he's changed since he'd last seen Harry and the inevitable toll it's starting to take on their ability to talk to each other.

So, he picks up the crayon with his perpetually trembling hand, and scrawls the words: 

_he took the darkness and swallowed it whole found himself bleeding into the night and wondering why_

He takes the napkin in his hand, barely able to see the words through his blurred vision, wanting to tear it up all the same.

"Can I see it?" Harry asks without looking at him. "You don't have to. I'd just like to know what's on your mind sometimes even if you won't tell me."

"Me writing it is the same thing as telling you, though, isn't it?"

Harry shakes his head. "Not even close." There's facetious smile playing on his lips, like when he knows he's right but Louis's going to fight him anyway.

Louis opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself, knows enough about Harry to know that he's already got his argument ready like a lawyer suited up for the fight.

So he just passes Harry the napkin, watching where the crayon residue falls to the table and will inevitably stick to the heels of Harry's hands. Harry reads the paper thrice over with his usual scrutinizing furrowed eyebrows. Louis' heart skips about five beats, he's sure, when Harry puts the paper in his pocket without a word but accompanied by a stone cold, unreadable expression. He gestures with his chin for Louis to exit the booth, and he does, his heart starting to pound faster with every irrational thought that flits behind his eyelids.

"Where're we going?" he asks quietly as they turn an unfamiliar corner. His voice shakes the same as his hands despite the strength he tries to exert behind it; the ship on the water that just can't hold its own.

Harry looks back at him with the saddest eyes he thinks he's ever seen, and grabs his hand. He's shaking his head to himself, like he's trying to stop himself from using words that he knows are useless.

"Somewhere safe."

-

Louis's always liked aquariums. He likes the dark halls where the deep sea fish were kept especially, even when he was younger. He can simply just disappear among them and the crowd, blend in like another spectator while simultaneously feeling as though he was a creature of the deep whose species didn’t even need eyes because of the lack of light.

And Louis always thought that was the problem with humans; people think with their eyes. First impressions, preferences, things that are aesthetically appealing, they’re all constructs of a society doomed to destroy itself on an imaginary concept of what ‘perfect’ is. Louis’s found himself caught up in it, of course he has, can’t help but be visually aware of the world he lives in.

But as much as Louis hates the way people think with their eyes, he quite likes the way Harry looks at him when he thinks Louis can’t see him. Harry only takes him to the aquarium on special days or really bad days. Today’s a really bad day, Louis thinks, because as he stands with his nose pressed to the glass of the jellyfish exhibit, he can see Harry’s reflection in the glass and the ambiguous look he’s wearing on his face. He looks a mix of tragically endeared and heartbroken, pity and wonder. And Louis is confused.

Louis doesn’t ask, though, because Harry always speaks first. He just continues to feel ten years old again, watching the glowing creatures swim by each other and others, jealous of them, almost.

As expected, Harry sidles up behind Louis after a few minutes, tugs on his sweater sleeve until Louis drops his hand from the glass and into his own.

"You've really got a way with words," he mumbles stupidly while playing with Louis' hand, tracing over his knuckles and making Louis roll his eyes.

And, like, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

Harry laughs out loud, seeming to take advantage of the fact that they're the only two people in the deep sea hall. There's a sea lion show going on at the moment, almost as if they'd planned it themselves. 

Louis looks up at Harry carefully, squints at him for a moment or two, trying to see passed the fleeting grin on his lips.

"How is the truth stupid?"

There's a moment of them just looking at each other, almost as if something is building up, and then they both burst into peals of laughter. They don't stop laughing for a while, tears in their eyes, noses in each other's shoulders. They don't notice how truly long they've been trying to stop their giggles until people start filling up the hall again. They've ended up on the floor beneath the window to the jellyfish case, each leaning into the other and stealing space.

"I love you," Harry whispers privately. It's only meant for Louis to hear, the words warming up the side of his neck as well as his cheeks.

He's so close to saying it back, thinks that he can actually mean it now. Because Harry tries and he tries, knows Louis better than anyone, tells him that his shitty writing is actually worth something.

But he's afraid of a repeat of the last time he was too eager to admit how he really feels. He lets the words get stuck in his throat, sucked back in by the rapid beating of his mending heart, and tucks his face into Harry's neck.

"I think I do, Harry," is what he settles on, "Does that count?"

Harry's eyes are closed when he answers. "More than you know."

Harry spends the rest of the day holding Louis' hand as if he's afraid to float away into the clouds.

***

"D'you think I could write on you again?" Louis flips over in Harry's hold so they're chest to chest and he's able to see up his nose. ''It was a lot more... _therapeutic_ than on myself. Or paper."

Harry's laughter jostles Louis, who pouts because now he isn't comfortable.

"Why're you looking at me like that," Harry asks, an innocent look on his face as if he doesn't know exactly what he's done.

"You jostled me."

That just makes Harry laugh harder a he sits up and dislodges Louis altogether. He seems to think that handing the older boy his Sharpie would make up for it, but... maybe he's right. With the pen in hand, Louis feels a few creative screws pop loose, and before he can think about it, he's hiking Harry's shirt up to his chest and scribbling words on any empty space he can find. He weaves them around his butterfly, over the laurels on his narrow hips, past the scrawl of _Might as well..._

And before long, Louis's got a paragraph temporarily inked into his favourite stretch of pale skin.

_living in a physical world with a metaphysical brain that wants to propel through the galaxies and over undiscovered cosmos youre stuck with the complicated youve got other worlds in your head while the one youre living in trudges on going nowhere its torture because you dont fit because no one gets it because while your abstract thoughts and condescending nature buffer on and on the earth keeps spinning people cantering on mindlessly to fulfill their self determined destinies and meaningless granted and ungranted wishes alike_

When Louis pulls away from Harry's stomach, after closely observing his handiwork, he's met with wide green eyes boring into his, and a flush on Harry's cheeks.

"You alright there?" he asks a little breathily, the words escaping as a whisper in the quiet room.

Harry nods slowly. "Can I read it?"

"Be my guest."

Harry pulls his shirt fully up and over his head, twisting and craning his neck so as to try and read the crooked and looped lines of words.

"Christ, Lou," he complains with a chuckle, "Your handwriting really is shit."

If there's any of Louis' flaws that don't make him feel awful about himself, this is it. His quick scrawl and illegible letters make it convenient for him to write whatever he wants wherever without the people around him knowing what it says.

"Well I'm not reading it to you this time, Harold."

Louis shrugs, smirking sideways at Harry's futile attempts to get a good look at his stomach.

"I could take a photo, if you'd like?" he suggests. The struggle really is becoming pitiful.

Harry collapses into the pillows in defeat, sighing deeply. "Please?"

Louis digs through his over stuffed hoodie pocket until his fingers come in contact with his phone. He perches himself on Harry's thighs, and has to kneel up just a bit more because he wants to get Harry's sleepy content face in the frame. Harry notices, and drapes an arm over his eyes so only his crooked grin is visible. 

Louis snaps the photo when Harry stops giggling to take a breather. He takes a moment to just look at it, and forgets to take a mental note to print it out because he's too enraptured by the amount of light filtering into his usually pitch black bedroom.

"It's so bright in here," he mutters absently.

Harry removes his arm from over his face. "Yeah. S'lighting up the wispy ends of your hair." He snuffles happily. "Look like an angel."

Louis shakes his head halfheartedly. "You're a disgusting sap, Harry Styles." 

"Don't act like you don't love it."

There's an attempt at a shrug before Louis has what feels like two dozen fingers digging into his ribs.

" _Fuck!_ " He's being pushed onto his back before he can attempt to squirm away. "Get off of me!"

Harry's nose is poking at the underside of his jaw, tickling him just as much as the fingers in his sides.  He hates being tickled, hates being forced to laugh and feel an illusion of joy. But this isn't an illusion, he doesn't think, the happiness was already there due to Harry, and maybe he did just need an extra push. Literally.

"Stop it, Harry," he tries between laughs, pushing at the offending fingers until they stop their attack and settle on his hips.

Harry drops his weight onto Louis completely, letting him catch his breath.

"Sorry," he amends, "I just love your laugh, seeing you smile."

Louis doesn't justify how awfully gross that is with a verbal response right away, and instead wraps his arms around Harry's neck.

They're a few minutes into silence when Louis says, "You're an idiot," with love radiating from every square inch of his skin. 

-

“A ferris wheel,” Louis deadpans. “You think a ferris wheel is going to… what again?”

Harry nods enthusiastically, even though it wasn’t a Yes or No question. He’s fiddling with the carnival tickets in his hands, more nervous than Louis’s ever seen him. “You’ll see,” he says, “I just- I want you to see things from a different… perspective.” He nearly drops the tickets. “Promise not to get angry with me?”

Louis squints at him, worried and uncertain as to how any of this adds up. “You’re scaring me, Styles.”

He makes Harry take three deep yoga breaths before they even step into the line for the ride. They’re nearly to the front when Harry’s breath catches and Louis makes him do two more and has to ask: “You sure you’re alright there?” 

Harry’s white as a _cloud_ and taking worryingly shallow breaths through his nose, but he’s nodding. “I’m fine,” he promises without much conviction.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” An empty basket pulls up in front of them and Harry looks about ready to faint. “Harry, there are plenty of other rides, dunno what you’re trying to prove.”

He’s adamant, though, shakes his head and pulls Louis into the basket behind him. He seems to calm down a bit once they’re seated, in spite of his white knuckles on the safety bar. Louis’ stomach twists in secondhand fear once they start moving, a hand shooting out to rest on Harry’s thigh soothingly. He meets Harry’s eyes, smiling softly and silently begging Harry not to look down. However, as soon as they reach the top and rest there, the basket swaying back and forth in the wind, Harry peers right over the side and spirals into what Louis is convinced is a full scale panic attack. In hindsight, Louis should’ve known better. He should’ve known that Harry’s fear of heights hadn’t gone away, and should’ve known better than to let him on the ride when he was so nervous in the first place.

“Harry,” Louis coos gently. He pries Harry’s hands off of the metal, pulls them to his chest. Harry’s hand immediately flattens out across Louis’ chest, pressing down as if trying to feel his heartbeat. “Harry, calm down, we’re fine, alright? We’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

Harry’s crying quietly, tears slipping down his cheeks with each harsh breath he takes. He’s shaking harder than Louis’ ever seen his own hands tremble in his scariest moments, and Louis just doesn’t know what to _do_. He has no instinct for situations like these, no training or ideas of how to comfort someone; he’s always the one that needs the comforting. There’s not much he can do but hold Harry close and tell him that they’re fine until the ride jolts, startling both of them, and they’re being lowered to the ground once more.

Once they’ve stumbled off of the ride, Harry's dashing away so fast that it takes Louis a moment to realize he’s gone. He catches sight of Harry’s boots and his long coat turning  a corner and runs quickly after him. 

“Harry! Harry come back!”

As soon as Louis turns the corner, he doesn’t have to go very far; Harry’s sat down behind a food truck, crying into his knees. He crouches down beside Harry and pulls the curly head under his chin.

“Why’d you do that, huh? What were you trying to prove?”

"I don't-" Harry gasps a huge breath. "I didn't think-"

Louis drops his weight onto the grass beside Harry without letting go of him. "Alright, it's okay. We're fine now, see? Perfectly fine. Please stop crying, love," he begs, "I can't stand seeing you upset." And he thinks that's the most honest he's been with Harry since just before he left all those seven weeks ago.

Harry nods, wrapping his vines-for-arms around Louis' narrow waist. He presses close, reducing his crying to sniffles.

"I'm an idiot."

Louis rolls his eyes and pushes Harry backwards so as to establish eye contact. 

"You're really not. I just want to understand why you've done this to yourself when there's a million other things we could've done. I don't even like ferris wheels."

A pitiful whimper escapes Harry's throat as he flushes a shade darker than red and averts his teary eyes. "But I know you like heights and the thrill-"

"The thrill of a slow turning wheel?" Louis counters incredulously. "Tell me the truth, Harold, come on."

Green eyes widen further before he drops his head, starts twisting the rings on his fingers as if one of them will magically turn him invisible. 

"It's stupid," he mumbles.

Louis pretends to not hear him, an emotion he can't quite name making his gut twist uncomfortably. "Sorry?"

"It's stupid." Harry looks up at him, more conviction in his voice this time.

"How many times have I said that to you, Harry, eh? How many?" He grabs Harry's twiddling fingers harsher than necessary. "How many times have you made me say it? What is it you say? 'It's not stupid, it's never stupid. Your feelings aren't stupid.' And they aren't." Louis takes a deep breath. "Especially not to me."

Louis' gaze had somehow drifted from Harry's face in the midst of his rant. And when he looks again, Harry's smiling. It's a private smile, like only Harry knows what it means. That's true enough, considering Louis has no idea what the hell is going on. He pushes Harry's shoulder with a roll of his eyes, torn between being amused or enraged. 

"Spill it, Styles. What the fuck were you tryin' to pull?"

Harry blushes redder than Louis thought possible at this point. "Now I'm no Asop, but I think I've just taught you a lesson." He snickers excitedly, tears still running down his face. ''And I didn't even need a talking frog or something!"

With a single aggressive shove, Louis overturns Harry onto his back. Louis squints at him from above, attempting to calculate exactly how cute someone needs to be for Louis to not be allowed to direct anger and annoyance towards them.

"You _are_ the talking frog." Louis kisses Harry on his ridiculous nose so it scrunches up. Definitely cute enough. "Let's go home."

Harry pouts for just a moment before lighting up at the word 'home.' His horrible weakness of being tragically domestic is something Louis uses to his own advantage much too often. 

They heave themselves off the ground and dust each other grass free. Louis' hand takes up residence in Harry's coat pocket during the walk back to the mansion. lt's a relatively short walk from the park where the carnival is located, made twice as long by Harry stopping to collect flowers, beg Louis to buy baking supplies, and talk Louis out of buying cigarettes. ("But it's been _ages_." "That's the point.")

Harry bakes him cupcakes that spell out their names, and makes him watch Cake Boss until he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

-

"Louis."

Harry should know that Louis isn't a morning person.

"You should know that I'm not a morning person," Louis grumbles to Harry.

There's a body on Louis' stomach all in the sudden, and lips on the junction of his neck and shoulder. "It's nearly five in the evening, love," the lips say. They don't move, leaving Louis pleasantly un-tickled. "I made French toast."

Louis hums, fighting a smile. "Now you've got my attention."

Harry doesn't move off of Louis, though. In fact, he just lets Louis flip over onto his back, his one hand brushing up to hold Louis' next to his sleep-disheveled head of hair.

"You gonna move?" Louis wonders aloud. Louis' thigh spasms awkwardly. "M'getting itchy."

Harry giggles. "And twitchy." He still doesn't budge, just cranes his neck backwards to get a look at Louis' face. His eyes are still drooping with sleep, which means he's a goddamn liar. "Where does it itch?" 

Louis squints, albeit not much more than he already was against the sun that's getting ready to set.

"I wouldn't know." He tilts his head up to lick Harry's nose. "You didn't make breakfast, did you?"

Harry sighs sleepily, drops his head back on Louis' chest. "No."

"Figures."

Louis tries to make eye contact with the sunshine and listens to the light tapping of rain that signals the oncoming storm. His heart feels much the same, something dark brewing, but the illusion of a beautiful day making him able to ignore it. Harry's loud breathing provides an interesting, airy soundtrack to Louis' thoughts, something familiar, the sound that he falls asleep to nearly every night and the one he can't sleep  without on the days that they're apart.

"You thinkin' about me?" Harry mumbles.

A snort involuntarily escapes Louis. "Conceited much?"

"You keep yanking at my hair like you don't know what to do with your hands." Louis immediately detaches his fingers from the curls; he hadn't even realised. "I was only joking, I know you're just thinking."

_the storm is in your heart, pounding against your ribs, shipwrecking everything you thought you held so dear_

Louis drops his voice to a whisper. “Can I have a pen?”

Harry reaches over to the nightstand without a word and presents Louis with a pen and... his arm. He shrugs, a smirk showing itself like it always seems to when he reads Louis all-too-well. There's rustling and knees bumping, legs interlocking awkwardly as they reposition themselves to achieve their most recent endeavour. It's quick and it's comforting, Harry's head on Louis' shoulder, their fingers laced together. Harry breathes steadily, moves minimally, and by the time Louis has scrawled the last word as neatly as he can muster while half asleep, both of them have frowns set upon their lips, knowing that there's something to be said.

Harry speaks first. "You know that we've got to discuss or sooner or later, right?*

If it was up to Louis, they wouldn't discuss it at all. But as it is, he thinks as he studies their entwined hands, when it comes to Harry it's never up to him. So he nods, knot in his stomach already tightening with the impending doom of explaining why it is he's so fucked up.

"Why're you so afraid?"

Louis shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and _praying_ that Harry believes him when he says, "I don't know."

There's a gut wrenching moment where Louis begins to cringe, fearful of Harry's disbelieving response. Then the silence dissipates and Harry's saying, "I believe you."

Louis loosens his inadvertent iron grip on Harry's fingers, apologizing softly. A few emotions that Louis can't quite identify zing through him at the words, ironic disbelief and gratefulness flooding his head. He feels strangely underwater, drowning in things only Harry has ever had the ability to make him feel. Something akin to an emotional supernova bursts inside him and he finds himself in tears.

He hears Harry chuckle, somewhat reasonably, when Louis falls into his side. He doesn't cry harder than the occasional wet sniffle,  just gripping Harry's shirt and letting himself be held. He can't really find the words to express why he's suddenly so overwhelmed, so he lets his quiet apologies and thank-you's attempt to do it for him. The soft kisses that Harry periodically drops in his hair, like little pennies in a wishing well, keep him well distracted from the conversation that _still_ hasn't happened yet.

"I'd never be angry," Harry says suddenly, startling them both. "Never angry or disappointed or frustrated. Because you have to know that my initial reaction to being pushed away, or a sudden change in pace isn't even close to what I'm thinking or what I mean... okay?"

Harry gets his fingers caught in Louis' hair, tugging gently as if prompting him to speak. He doesn't know what to say, though; he doesn't know where his rational thoughts start and his psychotic inner ramblings end.

"It still isn't fair," is what he goes with. It’s not thorough or logical, but it's a complete thought at the very least.

Harry inhales a deep breath as though he's going let out a great big sigh. But he doesn't. He just looks at the words on his arm, thoughtful but not judgemental.

"You've got a bit of a skewed sense of 'fair' is what I think. Why don't you," he reaches for a pillow and hugs it to his chest innocently, "Just explain to me _your_ definition of the word 'sex.'  I'd appreciate it."

There's not yet been a word invented for the look of confusion and exasperation that Louis gives Harry.

"What for?" he manages to splutter. "I'd like to think that you know I have a basic understanding of how it all works, thanks. Just because I haven’t-"

Harry just shakes his head with an amused smirk; it's very frustrating. "That's not the point," he explains. "I wanna see where our  definitions differ. I want us to be on the same page, as we should be in a relationship."

Louis doesn't mean to react to the word, but his heart jumps. They are, though, they're in a full-on, proper, adult _relationship_. It all seems very official.

"Alright." Honestly, when we he stop agreeing with this boy. "It's just..." And he's blanking now, stupidly, face burning under his hand where he's rested his chin. He turns away from Harry, all kinds of embarrassed now. "Stuff. Stuff people do when they're turned on." God, he sounds like he's twelve years old. "I don't know what you want me to say."

He ends up with a nose in his hair, arms around his waist. "Why are you so _embarrassed_. Christ, Lou, why can't you just talk to me." He doesn't sound angry, but the connotation of the words just make Louis feel worse. "Pretend I'm one of your mates from school, I dunno. Just be honest and unfiltered."

That's just the problem. "Do you know how hard it was for me to _stop_ being just that?" he snaps, deflating in Harry's arms, waiting for the repercussions of his outburst. "That's exactly what I don't want. All everyone's ever been is angry with me, disappointed in what I can't do, what I don't want to do, what I say. I don't want you to feel that way, too."

He's glad his back is to Harry, now more so than before, because he doesn’t think that he can  face the hurt and confusion that's inevitably poisoned Harry's gentle features because Louis's just admitted to never being himself around him.

“What does that mean, Lou?” is Harry’s heart-wrenching answer. “I. Do you th- no. I won’t make you say- Is it because-?” He can’t even finish a sentence.

“You’ve no idea how much I hated myself Harry. Still do, in fact. But you-” He has to turn around to look at Harry now, has to look him in the eye for this confession. “You make everything so much better.” And he feels relief by simply admitting that. “You just do. Simply by _being_. I don’t know how you do it, how you make me forget myself, but you do. You let me get excited about things, and let me be loud. And sometimes I can’t reign it in like I want to, but you make that _okay_ for me. I don’t hate myself for it afterwards. _God_ , Harry.”

He didn’t want to cry, but… Times are tough.

Louis more or less tackles Harry back into the mound of pillows and blankets, breath caught in his throat and this time not accompanied by the words he never wanted to say. He's said them now, they're out in the open, this is real.

"Louis." 

His tone is exactly the same as when he was trying to rouse Louis from sleep. Louis wishes he were asleep, wishes the last half hour were a dream. He makes a broken sound when he feels Harry establish a grip in his hair. 

"Alright. Okay, here we go. Up you get." Louis can hardly breathe but suddenly he's being pushed onto his feet. "Louis, take a deep breath and find your feet, I need you to come with me." 

There's a struggle to disentangle their limbs, the blanket, and Louis nearly collapses twice. With Harry's help he finds balance and is being led out of his room. 

"Where," he trips, "the fuck are you taking me?"

Louis half expects him to say 'somewhere safe' like last time, but instead he turns around with wet eyes and says,

"Home."

***

_Home_ didn't turn out to be Louis' childhood home like he'd expected. Instead, Harry takes him near there, a three and a half hour drive from London, to the outermost parts of Manchester where they first met.

It's an open field, marshy and abandoned, traces of the litter that the clean up crew couldn't quite get to on their first and only round to get it all. Louis can see the people in his mind, can picture the stages and the food vendors as clearly as though he'd just stepped foot back into the best day of his life. He’s always found it so easy to dive into the past, especially this day. He remembers the feeling of being so carefree, not giving a damn if someone was watching him dance a little strangely just so he could impress his friends and perhaps catch the attention of the cute, curly haired lad and all his friends that were looking his way.

Of course, Louis hadn't been one hundred percent sure that the boy was looking directly at him, nor was he really going to do anything about it; Louis prided himself on his loyalty. He was wearing sunglasses, after all; everyone was because of nicely the England weather had treated them despite the puddles they had to trudge through. But vain, naïve, confident Louis hoped he'd had all eyes on him, and if the way Curly and his friends' smirks quirked every time he told a joke a bit too loud was anything to go by, Louis had found himself a group of onlookers.

"Why did you bring me here?"

Louis's just been staring at the open space, looking off at where the sky met the land and feeling as though him and Harry had met quite the same way: inevitably.

The day that Harry's pouting had become a sixth sense to him is a day that Louis curses. "I want you to be honest with me." He walks ahead of Louis and sits down on the grass. "This is the only place you've ever been honest without thinking... The only place I've ever known at least."

Louis turns his back to him, and it seems they'd been walking the whole time; the car park is out of sight.

And maybe it's true, that Harry never really got to know the old Louis, because the moment Louis that had been accused of cheating, the moment that every one of his flaws had been thrown in his face.

"But-" 

_even lucifer was a fallen angel, tossed down from heaven because he loved too much_

Louis's never really had a way with words, unless the jumbled mess of his thoughts on paper counts as eloquence. 

He retrieves his green felt tip from behind his ear and takes a seat beside Harry on the grass. His open palm gets the message to Harry, and then he's got a larger hand entwined with his own. Louis turns it over, palm up, and writes down the words slowly, trying not to look at them so he doesn't cry. It’d be quite an annoying thing to do while he’s jotting down his thoughts on his boyfriend’s arm once more.

Harry reads the words as they appear across his skin, saving them a shrill silence. Louis doesn't know what he's telling Harry anymore, doesn't know how to say what he really does want to tell. Harry must be feeling the same inarticulate frustration, because he takes hold of Louis' face and just crashes their mouths together with absolutely no finesse. 

Louis knows that he's trying to say something with every press of his lips to Louis' own. He just doesn't get it anymore, why Harry bothers. He digs his fingers into Harry's hair, pulling him closer and trying to say something back. Perhaps that he's a whiny piece of shit that acts like his life is terrible, all the while living in a mansion in Kensington, making money while sitting on his couch and writing bad metaphors all day. He tries to say that he’s sorry, for all the frustration and the lies and the tears. He tries to make the moment mean something, wants to make sure that Harry knows just how much he means to Louis.

"Why-" he has to pull away from the plush lips on his, has to let the hysterical half-sob escape from his throat. "Why do you keep doing this, H? You keep putting yourself through hell trying to fix me when you know just how hopeless I am." He sighs defeatedly. "Just give up, Harry. For your sake, please."

He can’t look Harry in the eye, can’t even bear to touch him again after pulling away so fast. He just wants to get up and run, and he's about to, but Harry's gets a grip on his bicep and he's dragged back down onto the grass. 

"Oh, stop it with the self-deprecating bullshit. I'm offended that you even think I could up and leave you, firstly." Harry runs a hand harshly through his hair. Louis's hands are starting to tremble. "Second, I'm not trying to _fix_ you. I'm trying to _be here_ for you. Is that really so hard to wrap your head around?"

Louis just nods, face flaming and fingers itching where he'd tangled them in the grass. He pulls up a few strands, patches of dirt coming up with it. The soil gets under his fingernails, and he can see the mud that’s stuck to the bottoms of his shoes. He almost wishes Harry could do this to him, forcibly pull up all the pieces of him that he never wants to show, he wishes Harry would just tear all of them out of him. It’d probably be a lot less painful than them dancing around the subject day in and day out. Because Louis _wants_ to tell him, for fuck’s sake he does. There's no words left, though, not a chance in the world that a single compilation of letters can come close to describing the ache he’s had  in his chest for the last five years.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers. The apology nearly gets swallowed by the wind, by the crickets and their obnoxious day time chirping. "I love you, Lou. And I'm here for you if you need- want me to be. But there's only so much I can do when you won't tell me what happened. And I know something did, I-" Harry's eyes slip closed. "You came back a completely different person."

Louis wordlessly takes his own pinky finger and interlocks it with Harry, lifts his thumb in a silent plea for Harry to understand that he's the same person that he met in this very field all those years ago. Harry complies, pressing their fingers together and Louis thinks maybe he can ignore the rising panic for just one moment to make Harry a promise that he intends to keep for once.

"I will."

When Harry realizes what Louis is promising, his eyes soften, and his lips quirk downwards. He nods, doesn't say anything. Louis hopes that he knows just how much he really means it this time.

He owes him that much.

-

Time takes its toll on Louis sometimes, when he's just sitting around and thinking. He's got all the time in the world, and when Harry's off at work he gets ridiculously lonely, and bored, and bitter with Harry's normal life.

It's ten o'clock, and Louis' been awake since noon. He's hardly done anything; he's had six cups tea, written ten pages of utter nonsense about a boy trapped in an elevator, and listened the entire _Grease_ soundtrack four times.

His mind gets a little crowded when he's stuck in the silence, twiddling his thumbs and starting off into the pitch black darkness he's forced his room into. Louis starts thinking about his life before Harry, thinks about how maybe he could've done something differently, how he couldn't not pushed everyone away and forced himself into this cold isolation. Between the time his life was everything he asked for and when it became a dark rom-com, Louis doesn't know how he survived. It was only a year that he spent completely alone in this mansion, after he'd inherited it, and it was easily the darkest year of his life.

He pulls out a pen, reminiscent of the night he tried to punch his reflection, and scrawls across his bare thigh, 

_its hard to say just when the loneliness swallowed you and made you so invisible that when you looked in the mirror not even you could see yourself_

Louis thinks about the nightmares, about all the nights he forced himself to stay awake so he could at least attempt to repress the still fresh memories. All the times he looked into the mirror and saw nothing but a haunted version of the person he used to be. He thinks about all the words he'd written and burned in his fireplace, all the journals and loose pages he'd gone through in his coping. Coping with what? He still doesn’t really know.

But then Harry came along, Harry the perfect distraction before he before he became more than just that. Harry who's probably on his way to Louis' house right now. 

Louis’ train of thought forces him to unlock his phone, and he’s momentarily blinded by the bright light, and sends to Harry, _where r u_

Louis doesn't expect Harry to answer right away, since he's probably driving, but soon enough his phone makes an irritating trumpet noise and the screen glows in his dark room with Harry's cheeky words:

_That's for me to know and you to find out._

Louis rolls his eyes, flicking on his lamp as he sits up. His heart swells in his chest, because whenever Harry says that there's something special coming, and Louis really hopes he hasn't missed an important date. There aren't many special things in October, but with the howled romantic Harry is, there's got to be something he's missing.

_your outside the door arent u,_ Louis types and sends quickly.

Harry's response comes through shortly after, _:(_

Sure enough, Louis' doorbell rings, and he hops out of bed with a smile on his face for the first time in months. When he swings the door open, he's presented with an open armed, wide grinned Harry. He falls into Harry's arms, feeling the soft steady heartbeat on his cheek.

"Missed you," he mumbles shamelessly.

Harry walks them through the threshold, into the den. "I missed you too, obviously. Now go get dressed."

"No." Louis squeezes his arms more snugly around the taller man's waist. "Don't really feel like going out. Nor do I want you spending your hard earned cash."

"Ha," Harry laughs sarcastically. "We're not going anywhere, don't worry. Just want everything to be fancy."

Louis steps back, taking in Harry's pressed black trousers and his fanciest button up. Given, it's only got, like, four buttons actually done up, but Louis has only seen him wear the dark, flowery top to two weddings and a dinner party at Louis' boss' house.

"What's the occasion?" Louis ponders while he messes with Harry's necklace. "Is it the first time I sneezed on you? Or when I started my collection of dirty underpants beneath your bed?"

Harry smiles, eyes twinkling in a way that Louis doesn't like. It's the look that Harry gets when he's about to make Louis shove his proverbial foot in his mouth.

"S' the first time you kissed me," Harry says.

Louis turns and walks away.

-

When Louis finally stops fussing with his hair and decides to actually see what the hell all the clanging in his kitchen is about, he's met with the sight of Harry keeled over with his head nearly in the oven.

"Gonna singe your beautiful mane if you get any closer there, Harold."

Had it been three years ago, Harry most definitely would've jerked and thwacked his head on something. As it is, it isn't, and so Harry straightens up and tells Louis to shut up while wearing his cheesiest smile.

Louis takes in the scene around him, the fancy tablecloth and the candles. Harry’s dimmed the lights, he notices.

“You sure I haven’t missed a birthday or something? This is all very extravagant. Even for you.”

Harry removes his oven mitts and bustles around Louis to the fridge. He’s in proper chef mode, so Louis takes his seat before he gets burned by a rogue pepper or has his head chopped off with a steak knife.

“No one needs to win a bloody Oscar for it to be a special occasion, Lou.” He starts sautéing something. It smells heavenly. “Just wanted to do something special. When was the last time I properly cooked something?”

Louis watches Harry’s concentrated face as he tastes whatever is in the pan. Endearing doesn’t begin to cover it. “We both know that your definition of  ‘proper cooking’ is two thousand percent different from mine,” he reminds. “When did you set this all up anyway? I was only up there for ten minutes.”

Harry shrugs, turns the stove top off. “I suppose that’s true.” He makes his way over to where Louis is sitting. “And I did it last night, before I left. I knew you wouldn’t get out of bed all day. Missing me too much.”

“Well, fuck you,” is Louis’ indignant retort.

Just then, the oven dings, and Harry turns to Louis with an excited grin. “Dinner is served.”

As expected, dinner is spectacular. Anything and everything Harry makes never disappoints, and the filet mignon he made tonight is no exception. He bought wine too, and forces Louis to drink it on his brand new white, suede couch. Why Louis bought a couch made of suede, he’ll never know, but he does hope that he spills some of the wine on it, just to see Harry’s petrified and apologetic look as he goes into his ‘Monica Mode,’ and frantically tries to remove the stain.

“So,” Harry says, in a tone that implies they haven’t  known each other for six years, “Tell me about yourself.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot.” He takes another sip of wine, thinking that maybe he should’ve stopped three glasses ago. He turns to Harry, crosses his legs underneath himself, and pinches Harry’s nose closed until he splutters for air. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I’m not too sure about that, considering you just tried to kill me.” Harry takes both of their glasses in hand and stretches to set them on the coffee table. 

“Hey, I’ll have you know that breathplay is a perfectly reasonable kink. Yeah, you can die, but. Life is risk.”

“Contrary to popular belief, oh all knowing Louis Tomlinson,” Harry waves his hands in the air abstractly, “I don’t actually want you to cut off my air supply.”

Louis shuffles forward so his nose is pressed up against Harry’s. He squints at him, then decides that the topic of conversation isn’t interesting enough to continue. So he lunges forward and kisses Harry square on the mouth.

Or at least he thought it was square on the mouth, but he is slightly tipsy and perhaps the tip of Harry’s nose is close enough.

“You missed, you rabid squirrel.”

“Oh, shut _up._ ”

Harry fixes it, and the result is simultaneously glorious and terrifying. Louis would admit to being one of those people that says he can spend an eternity kissing Harry, but it’s never as calming as it should be, because there’s always that underlying feeling that he’s obligated to go further when he really, _really_ can’t.

The alcohol thrums in him though, and makes him forget for just a moment all the things he’s afraid of. He pushes Harry onto his back, and shifts upwards until he’s perched on Harry’s hips. It’s an unfamiliar position, would be daunting on any other day, but all Louis can focus on his Harry’s lips on his and the warm hands on his waist.

Harry starts to wriggle underneath Louis after a few minutes of just them making out, and the realization takes much too long to hit him. There’s a moment where Louis freezes before pulling away altogether and untangling his fingers from Harry’s hair. Louis feels his face start to burn ridiculously, and there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is, “Are you hard?”

For a split second Louis wants to swallow his words, but that’s before Harry’s face cracks and he laughs. “Yeah, Lou,” he manages between cackles. “If you haven’t noticed I’ve got my particularly fit boyfriend on my lap. I’m-” he stops laughing long enough to take in Louis’ mortified expression.

The panic must be written all over Louis’ face as though the word itself has been painted across his forehead. 

“Louis, Lou. Hey, it’s- I’m sorry. I’ll go just-Budge up.” Harry hisses as Louis accidentally nearly knees him in the balls.

“I’m sorry. I’m- I didn’t-”

“Louis.” Harry’s voice is a gentle command, a soft request with conviction behind it so Louis knows he’s serious. “Look at me.”

But he can’t, he really honestly can’t. He’s so embarrassed, so afraid that Harry’s angry with him even though he _knows_ that he isn’t. He’s silently fighting a battle with his subconscious, and his throat starts to tighten because of it. He shakes his head, brings his knees to his chest and begs himself not to cry.

“I’m not mad,” Harry whispers. “I’m not angry and it’s not a big deal. Are you alright?”

“I’m-” Louis keeps his eyes on his kneecaps. “M’sorry.”

There’s a pair of arms around him before he can even finish the apology. “Don’t be sorry. I just want you to be okay. I-I’ll be right back, Lou, okay? Please don’t be upset.”

Louis nods to give him some peace of mind, but with every step he takes towards the bathroom is a stab of guilt in Louis’ side.

***

_I have to tell him_.

Louis writes the words back to back to back on several sheets of paper late into the night, long after Harry’s fallen asleep. The secret has been eating at him for the better part of five years, and now that it’s all coming to rear its ugly head, guilt on top of guilt is smothering Louis. And he can’t breathe because of it. 

"I have to tell him," he whispers to himself in the dark. The words have long since stopped sounding like words and begun sounding like the buzzing in his ears that's making his head pound. “I have to- _Harry_. Harry.”

_i wonder when ill stop feeling as though there's a hand around my neck, squeezing tighter with every breath i take even though im not fighting back_

Louis is well on his way to an anxiety attack by the time he's written the last word on the skin of his thigh. He's not even sure if the words have come out, but he can't really be bothered to care when he feels how true the words are. Louis reaches over with a shaking hand, rests it on Harry’s shoulder.

“Harry.”

He says it too quietly to rouse Harry, but it must be the tone of his voice that pulls the boy from sleep.

"What's- what."

His voice is scratchy but still his, and keeps Louis from losing himself entirely. He manages a few pained sniffles before he's rasping out Harry's name again.

"Hey," Harry sits up reaches to turn the light on but knows better. "What happened? Louis please breathe, c'mon you're alright." He places the hand that's not around Louis' shoulders over his diaphragm, orders him to take deep breaths. "Can't do anything until you breathe. Everything's fine, I promise."

Louis tries to speak, tries to apologise- anything. But he can't do much besides scratch at his face and try to fill his lungs the way Harry's telling him to. He's always had a problem with not hyperventilating under stress, and now is no exception.

By the time Louis can breathe again, he’s got Harry’s entire body wrapped around his own and he’s been told that he’s loved at least two dozen times. He feels awful, guilty and like a _liar_ , keeping a stupid secret for so long. Louis wishes that it were even a big deal, that he had a reason to be acting like this.

“I’m sorry.” Harry’s moved them to the kitchen so he can make tea. “I overreacted.”

His back is to Louis, but the shake of his head is still visible. “Louis, it’s fine. Just… why? What happened?”

Louis starts tearing up a napkin. “I want to tell you. So badly. But every time I think about I feel like I’m going to either pass out or just start choking or something.” He starts tearing up the residue of the pieces of the napkin, making the tiny shreds even smaller. “It’s all a bit ridiculous, but I don’t know what to do about it. I’m going to chicken out.”

“You don’t actually have to tell me, y’know. If it scares you that much, I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want to do. That’d be really hypocritical of me.” Harry sets down their mugs, sits down across from Louis. He looks sad. And tired. “If you want to, I’ll be here to hear it, but it won’t change a thing. I promise I’ll still l-”

“Love me the same,” Louis chimes in. “I know. I believe you.” And he does.

Harry takes Louis’ hand from across the table, looks him in his eyes and makes him feel twelve different kinds of safe and at home.

“That’s all I ever wanted.”

-

Harry’s skirting along the edge of the rink, holding onto to the wall for dear life. Meanwhile, Louis has skated three laps, and is now approaching his boyfriend backwards.

“Harold, what’s the hold up?”

Louis stops short right in front of Harry, startling him and making him wobble on his long legs and nearly wipe out on the skates.

“I told you about sixteen times, Louis,” he slips and barely manages to catch himself, “I don’t know how to ice skate.”

Louis hums. “Right, that’s why I rented out the rink for the day, remember?” He puts out a hand. “C’mon, you look bloody pitiful. If you fall, you fall, take me down with you if you’d like, but you’ve got to dive right in.”

“Louis, no!”

The objection is futile, because Louis is momentarily stronger and able to pull Harry away from the wall and into the middle of the ice. Harry stumbles, locking his knees from what Louis can see. He goes all pigeon toed, arms straight out in front of him, and Louis isn't strong enough to skate to help him _before_ snapping a photo.

"You're trying to kill me," Harry grumbles once Louis arrives. "You actually hate me and are trying to murder me while making it look like a freak accident."

Louis does his best to ignore Harry's death grip on his fingers. "I love you very much and want you very much alive and am here to help you."

"Right."

If Louis had rolled his eyes any harder they might've fallen right out of his head. He pulls Harry forward as slowly as possible, letting him get used to the glide of his skates on the ice.

"S'just like walking. Don't try to do both feet at once because then we'll both be in our arses." Louis tugs him along a little faster. "You gotta kick your feet, Harry. One at a time, c'mon, watch me. You're not looking."

Harry's not let up his iron grip at all, his giraffe legs flailing about awkwardly.

"I hate you."

"Aw," Louis brings them to a stop, "I love you too." 

For some reason unbeknownst to Louis, his own smaller skates were made with taller blades than those of Harry's larger ones. It makes Louis closer to Harry's height than he has been since they were a measly twenty-one and nineteen (a whopping five years ago, Louis is so old), when Harry had started to _really_ shoot past Louis without first asking his permission to do so. He bumps their foreheads together, so that Harry goes all cross eyed and his own heart grows three times bigger in his chest.

"I love you so much you frog faced klutz."

Harry kisses the diamond shaped tip of Louis' nose. "I'm offended by that."

"Good."

They're just standing in the middle of the rink, Louis keeping the both of them stationary. It's picture perfect, in Louis' mind, and just when he thinks it couldn't get any better, he sees a snowflake land in Harry's hair. It melts quickly, but is followed by several more, and suddenly there's a gentle snow shower coming down upon them and this, this is perfect. It's a winter wonderland, and Louis has his favorite person in the whole world right in front of him to complete the scene.

"D'you really want me forever, Styles?" Louis asks quietly, privately.

Harry laughs lowly, his warm breath hitting Louis' cheek.

"Forever isn't even close to long enough."

-

They're in the middle of watching shitty late night television when Louis blurts it out.

“He thought I cheated on him.” The day comes flooding back, clear and in full color; the words that were hurled at him, the sting in his back where he was shoved against the wall. “With you.”

Harry’s expression falls dramatically, his grip loosening on Louis’ hand. Their fingers nearly slip apart, and Louis has to hold on tighter to remind Harry not to let him go.

“Babe, no,” Harry tries, “This is all my-”

“It’s not your fault." Louis shakes his head and makes his most valiant attempt to tumble head first into the story. “He saw me coming out of your tent. The night I got real drunk and couldn't find me own. You found me knocking on a-"

"Tree thinking it was a portaloo. I remember."

"Don't interrupt, Harold. That's rude."

"Sorry."

"Anyway," Louis drapes his small palm over their joint hands, "He like, he wouldn’t talk to me until we got back ho- back to our flat and and h-he just tried to kiss me and he must’ve been drunk and I pushed him away and he _lost it_.” Louis’s starting to lose his breath, words tangling together and getting caught on his tongue. “God he just started p-pushing me around and the things he _called me_ , fuck. He thought- he.” He’s crying now, Harry’s thumbs brushing under his eyes but unable to make the tears stop. "He wouldn't believe me, wouldn't even let me apologize. Because I never told him how _scared_ I am. He never listened to me, never let me talk because I did it too much and. And I. He didn't even know that I'm. I'm-"

Harry takes pity on him. "Alright. Stop it, stop, it's okay." He wraps his arms around Louis and pulls him down gently so that Louis clumsily falls half in top of him. 

"He told me that I never really loved him." Harry's hands run up and down Louis' sides, soothing him slowly, hushing him quietly. "It all sounds so minuscule now that I've said it out loud."

Harry shakes his head as Louis' chest tighten with guilt. "I'm sure it was much more than that. You wouldn't be this upset if it was nothing. He didn't deserve you anyhow."

And it was- so much more than the parts Louis can even bear to think about. Even the one's that do bleed into his thoughts everyday are the reason that he can't talk about this. He can't talk about the months of unheard apologies and the cold shoulder he was given, the way he was ignored and pushed away and nearly pushed into things he didn't want. For the better part of five months Louis tried to fix things before he was exploded on once more. He screamed at Louis his regret and anger, told Louis to fuck off before he did. Louis had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. He’d isolated himself from everyone in his efforts to make things right, to prove to the love of his life that he was just that. Louis had no friends left, he had nothing but the piece of paper in his coat pocket from that night, eleven digits scribbled across it and a promise that he didn’t keep.

“The night I called you,” Louis whimpers, “That was the night he actually hit me. Punched me right in my face and shoved me out the door ‘cos I’d gone for a walk and h-he.” He takes a deep breath, steadies himself before he starts crying again. Harry doesn’t say anything, just presses a hand to the small of Louis’ back to let him know that he’s there. “I didn’t think you’d actually believed when I said that me bag fell out the luggage rack.”

“It wasn’t exactly uncharacteristic of you.” A car horn honks annoyingly loud in the distance. “But you’re right. I didn’t.”

“He said that he didn’t want to be with a lying,” Louis nearly gags at the thought of repeating the words, “Gold digging, um, he-”

“Louis, look at me.” He’s closed his eyes, apparently, has tried to his in the neck of his sweatshirt. “You don’t have to tell me.”

But he does. “I really, really do.” He curls in closer around himself, hoping that if he tries hard enough he’ll magically turn into a flea. “He told me he didn’t care if I lived or died on the streets. He just threw a bunch of my clothes at me, pretty sure he flushed my key down the toilet.”

Louis’ voice has gone oddly calm, and he thinks that maybe he can trick himself into pretending the wound isn’t still fresh, that the words never took a toll on him, that they still don’t. 

“He told me I was a loud-mouth,  narcissistic, clingy baby who wouldn’t stand a chance in the real world without a real man like him to protect me.” Louis laughs sardonically, gestures to the room around them. “Joke’s on him, eh? Bit over dramatic, if you ask me. He still doesn’t even know that I didn’t actually fuck you.”

Harry snorts, wraps an arm around Louis. He falls easily into Harry’s side, just like always. “You don’t have to be so crude.”

Louis doesn’t respond, the pounding of  his pulse in his ears trying to compete with the echoing words in his head. It betrays the dull drone his voice has taken on, and he can’t help but feel like a bit of a liar.

“Are you okay?”

Louis shakes his head, deciding that now is as good a time as any to start being honest again. He flips over Harry’s arm, the faded marks of old words still visible on his skin, as though Harry made as little effort as possible to make them disappear. Harry hands him the sharpie that’s sticking out from between the couch cushions.

_you were a ray of darkness surrounded by black that went rogue and found a reason to shine. now you light up my space with your smile and soon enough ill be glowing with you because that brightness is all thats worth living for_

“No,” he admits  quietly, “I’m not.” He wishes his heart would settle down, that his hands would stop shaking.

“Tell me what you need.” Harry shifts closer until their legs are one over the other. It’s not  a command so much as a request, curiosity tinting the tone of Harry’s voice, like he genuinely wants to know what Louis needs because he can’t figure it out on his own.

Louis shrugs as best he can with how close the two of them are squished together. “This,” he says. “You to just unconditionally care, to do what you’re doing. I’m not crazy, I’m not spiralling into a life crisis, I don’t need _help_. I just get lonely sometimes, even when you’re here. But that’s mostly my fault. I have to learn to trust you more than I already do. Which is a lot. Just,” Harry’s hands in his hair are very distracting, “Don’t let me think too much, don’t treat me like I’m broken, but don’t forget that I am.” He’s a contradiction at best. “Make me French toast and tell me that you love me for no reason at all. Make me listen to music that I pretend to hate and don’t ever forget that I love you more than anything.”

It doesn’t suffice; it doesn’t come close to what Louis wants to say, to what his heart is bursting to tell Harry. But it’s a start, it’s an attempt that he’s made to get his pointless point across that he’s a hopeless tragedy and he’ll never be one hundred percent his old self again.

“Try not to get lost in that head of yours,” Harry whispers, “I need you here on Earth with me.”

-

Louis doesn’t want to smile.

“C’mon, Lou, just one photo.”

Louis just pouts harder, the thin elastic from the cone shaped hat making the back of his ears itch. Harry’s holding up his phone hopefully, his eyes shining to betray his fake frown.

“Why can’t you take a photo of me in my natural form, why’ve I got to smile?” Louis will play hard ball for as long as it takes; he doesn’t want to smile.

Harry drops his arms. “You’ve got such a beautiful smile, Lou.”

Louis stares at the candles burning on his cake, watches the wax drip onto the strawberry frosting. Harry’s never lied to him, but he’s also too stubborn to completely give in. All of the lights are out, so Harry’s most likely going to turn the flash on, which means the candle light versus the flash will near cancel Louis out. So Louis smiles, closed mouth, with his eyes trained on his cake.

He can almost picture the way Harry lights up and rushes to take the photo. The flash goes off not more than two seconds later, leaving him in the clear to blow out his candles.

“Wait!”

Louis has lost count of the number of times he’s rolled his eyes at Harry, but he thinks it’s got to be somewhere in the millions by now.

“What, Harry.” He really just wants to get this over with.

“Open your gift first.” Harry’s already throwing it at him, apparently too excited to hand it to him like a normal person. “I want you to open it then I want you to make sure that you’re sure about your wish.”

“Um,” Louis stares at the small box in his hand, then at Harry, “I actually wasn’t going to m-”

“Don’t even fucking finish that sentence.”

And well, if Harry’s swearing it’s got to be serious.

Louis opens the gift meticulously, trying to ignore the way the candles are melting all over his undoubtedly delicious cake. He only does it because of the way Harry’s bouncing in the seat he’s taken across the table; he looks like he’s about ready to leap over the cake and tear open the gift himself. It’s funny, seeing Harry so pent up, but he can only keep it up for so long. He tears off the paper, lifts the lid, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees what’s inside. 

“Harry, this is-”

“The most adorable thing ever?” He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Louis tries to play it off. “Disgustingly sappy.” But he’s tearing up and Harry can probably see it. “God, Harry, I love it.” 

He picks up the necklace, holds it between his fingers. It’s engraved with two hands, their pinky fingers interlocking. He feels really stupid for crying, because it’s nothing _big_ , per se, but it’s theirs. It’s their promises that they always keep to each other and it’s the love and moments they share. Louis couldn’t think of a better gift if he tried; a tangible representation of the love they have for each other.

When Louis looks up, Harry’s right in front of him, kneeling in front of the chair. He digs into the front of his shirt and his hand emerges with a chain. It’s a gold version of the silver necklace that Louis has in his hands. Disgustingly sappy indeed.

Harry pulls Louis into a hug, and Louis wipes his eyes on his shoulder. “I love you so much,” Louis whispers. “More than anything.”

_there will never be enough times that i say those three words in an attempt to get you to see how much my fragile heart is beating for you_

“I know,” Harry says, “I promised you I would.”

Louis pulls back from the hug, stares at the more rapidly dripping candle wax. “You know what,” he says, “I don’t think I need to make a wish.”

“Lou,” Harry protests sadly, “Don’t be like that.”

He smiles. “No. Not because I don’t want to.” Louis’ heart starts to flutter at the thought alone. “Because I don’t need to. I’ve got everything I could ever ask for.”

And God, it feels really fucking good to say.

**Author's Note:**

> comments make me happy :)
> 
> rebloggable post [here!](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/post/160019716944/vatican-cameos-by-nightwideopen-sometimes-louis)


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